


Grocery Primavera

by decotex



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Slow Burn, based on reapersun's grocery store idea, they're so sassy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:17:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decotex/pseuds/decotex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season 3, Hannibal and Will run a gourmet grocery store in Napa, California.</p><p>Hannibal has a proclivity for stocking obscure delicacies that no one will ever buy and for sitting on the balcony, alone. Will hasn't asked.<br/> <br/>aka "My pitch for Hannibal Season 4."</p><p>Feat. squid ink, romantic dinners on the balcony, the standard amounts of murder and sass, and all the art house-y surrealness that you've come to know and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grocery Primavera

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



> Based on [reapersun's post & art.](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/132811710777/i-drew-my-weird-hannigram-dream-post-s3-murder)

“Little on the nose, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“The top food and wine destination in the world? What, are you going for reverse psychology?”

“I make it a point to be a fugitive only in the legal sense. To put it in cliches; life is too short not to be lived to its fullest.”

“Your lust for life is going to get us killed.”

“I believe it already did.”

\---

The sun rose slowly over the valley, sweeping warm fall light over rolling vineyards and Mediterranean-style houses. A neat line of pigeons flew across the skyline.

It was almost impossibly picturesque, as if large men just out of frame were holding a gun to the sun’s wife and pitching birds into the sky at ten-second intervals.

Napa Valley wasn’t the sort of place to wake up all at once. It was too expensive for that. It shut off its alarm and laid in bed basking for several minutes, before slowly making its way downstairs to cook an organic breakfast, and then, encouraged by the California weather, decided to walk to work, possibly stopping at some point to pick up artisanal coffee.

A lone white pickup drove through downtown Napa, crossed the river, and turned onto a small street near the outskirts of commercialization, bordering a vineyard.

It passed several boutiques (all of which could affectionately described as “quaint”), an Italian restaurant, and a woman pulling a wheeled cart, before stopping in front of a shop halfway down the street, which was boarded up and featured a large poster that read “The Cat Cafe: Coming October!” Two men in hard hats got out of the truck. One went inside, while the other began unloading paint cans from the back of the truck.

The woman with the cart passed the truck and crossed the street, heading towards a delicately stuccoed grocery store labeled “Grocery Primavera” via a hand-painted hanging sign. A similar sign on the door read “Closed;” she went in anyway.

The man behind the counter looked up when she entered.

“Oh. Hi, Helena.”

He was wearing a maroon sweater and had unruly dark hair and, frankly, needed a shave. Somehow he made it work. 

“Morning, Alex. Order up?”

“It's in the back. Did you want prosciutto today? We have a surplus-thank Jules.”

She shrugged. “Why not? We could do a special at the restaurant.”

Alex nodded and turned towards a door at the back to the shop. “Ten pounds enough? George can ring you up.”

“That's fine!” Helena called after him as he disappeared into the stockroom.

George was a young man with black lipstick, a black leather collar, long black hair, and a polite personality.

“Hello. Are you having a good morning?”

“It’s okay.” Helena leaned on the counter, trying and failing not to stare at his lip ring. “It's too early to be awake, but such is the restaurateur life. Where’s his _friend?_ ” She said “friend” the way explorers halfway up Mount Everest say “bacon.”

“Jules? He’s in the back.”

She leaned closer. “Are they fighting? I can never tell, with Alex. He’s so hard to read.”

“That’s just how he is.”

“Jules seems sweet though. Not that I can _tell_. My French is horrible.”

“So was Alex’s,” said George, pressing buttons on the cash register. “In the beginning."

"They're very cute, aren't they?"

“Yes."

Alex walked back inside with a large bag, followed by another man with an apron. He nodded at Helena and smiled before turning back to Alex.

“Nous pourrions l'utiliser.”

“We really couldn't,” said Alex, kneeling to unload groceries into Helena’s cart.

“Il serait un ajout bienvenu à notre magasin.”

“But nobody needs it. Not you, not me, not anybody.” Alex looked at Helena. “He wants to stock squid ink,” he explained.

“Why?”

“Apparently it's a delicacy.”

“In what scenario?”

“Very rare ones.”

The register pinged, and George handed her a receipt. “You’re good to go. See you tomorrow, Helena.”

“Thanks!” She waved at all of them before turning to leave with her cart full of groceries, blushing when Jules held the door open for her.

“It’s almost time to open,” said George, glancing pointedly in the direction of the back room. 

“Then we’ll be going,” said Alex, taking the hint. He rubbed his left hand, which was wrapped in a thick bandage. “Finish stocking the guajillos next to the counter, would you? We’ll be upstairs.”

\---

Noon found the man whose nametag read “Jules” slicing cucumbers, while the man whose nametag read “Alex” watched him.

The kitchen windows looked out onto the street, giving Hannibal a perfect line of sight with which to stare openly at the cat cafe, which was currently being painted a soft mint green.

The way he was looking at the cafe-well, if Will saw Hannibal look at a _person_ that way, he’d be sure to eat a light lunch.

“You really hate it, don’t you?” he commented.

Hannibal shrugged and turned back to the cucumbers. He answered in French, which-keeping up appearances aside, Will commended his dedication to the bit.

“No. I just find it sad when a restaurant resorts to cheap and _unsanitary_ gimmicks. Nevertheless, I would take no issue with its existence, if only it didn’t exist directly across the street from us.”

“Are you going to do something about it?” Will asked carefully.

“No. I-” He glanced through the window briefly and appeared to change his mind about whatever he was going to say. “No.”

Will didn’t push. He found himself in a strange state of peace these days, and for once wasn’t overly concerned with why, or how long it would last.

Simultaneously, he’d unearthed something in Hannibal that he hadn’t noticed before: a slow and constant sense of restlessness.

Hannibal didn’t fidget, he didn’t pace, but he _did_ spent too much time reading travel articles and ordering exotic ingredients that no one would possibly buy. For obvious reasons he wasn’t able to integrate himself into local high society, but he had managed to visit almost every nearby winery and restaurant.

He’d bought himself an easel and a set of oil paints and a canvas and set it up in the corner of the living room that lit up gold in the afternoons. “For your portrait,” he’d deadpanned (and all of Will’s empath abilities combined couldn’t determine whether he was serious). And yet now, a month later, the canvas was still blank, more part of the decor than an activity at this point.

“Excuse me.”

Hannibal touched his shoulder and leaned past him, reaching for a bottle on the shelf.

A year ago Will would have moved. The kitchen was barely big enough for two people as it was. Today, he held his ground.

Hannibal smelled like the French Creed “Bois du Portugal” cologne that he kept on the bathroom counter.

\---

Hannibal washed and rebandaged his hand every day. He insisted that it was his medical duty. Will suspected he felt guilty.

“Better,” Hannibal said now, holding Will’s hand up to the light as to better inspect the scar. “Much better.”

It did look kind of better, Will supposed. As ‘better” as an enormous pink cut could look, anyway. At least it had stopped oozing and bleeding every time he opened his hand, which was a nice development.

“How much longer do I have to keep it wrapped?”

“My medical opinion is that you should keep it on for another week at least, to completely avoid the risk of infection. As your friend, I suggest keeping it on much longer.”

“Why?”

“To put it bluntly, it would scare the customers.”

“You think my hand is gross.”

“Will, I can assure you that your hand is not even among the top fifty most disgusting things I’ve seen this week.”

He finished wrapping Will’s hand and held it for a moment longer than was necessary, for no apparent reason.

“The color they’re painting that cafe across the street, for instance.”

\---

Hannibal ran the meat counter, obviously.

It was an integral part of their business plan. Fresh produce, rare ingredients, fine wines, and high-quality meats. Will, who had seen their finances, noticed that in terms of actual profit, Hannibal’s skill with a cleaver more than made up for his proclivity for purchasing unsellable products.

He was slicing, now, a large cow leg, in the back room. Blood rolled down the counter and into the floor drains.

Will, who had nothing better to do, was unpacking a shipment of Red Iranian Saffron.

There was a brisk knock, and then the door to the store opened. Seema, their newest employee, stared at Hannibal covered in blood and at the half-cut chunks of meat bleeding all over the counter and smiled brilliantly.

There are certain benefits to hiring goth teenagers.

“Hey guys! Flowers is here, so I’m heading out for the day.”

“That’s fine. See you tomorrow.” Will had made it clear to the employees that they didn’t have to check in or out with him. Seema, who was relentlessly friendly and aggressively positive, insisted on doing it anyway.

Honestly, Will didn’t care what their employees did at all, as long as the store continued to function relatively normally. Neither he nor Hannibal had ever really had a head for business.

“Goodbye, Seema,” said Hannibal, with a thick French accent.

“Au revoir, Jules!” she said, closing the door shut behind her.

Will nudged Hannibal. “See that? She’s learning French for you.”

“I would hope that a person’s proficiency with a language extends beyond the word ‘goodbye.”

“She’s nice. Strange, but I can’t say that I mind her. Why do you?”

“I see no reason to-”

“You’re slipping.”

Hannibal looked up. Will was staring at him oddly.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you-you’re hiding something. You’ve been, pardon my _French_ , kind of a bitch lately. You’re slipping. You don’t _slip_.”

“Will.” Hannibal looked at him, and the scene was suddenly very familiar for all the wrong reasons.  Blood, death-a past life.

“Just tell me. You know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

Hannibal broke eye contact and stared over him, into a wall.

“Beluga caviar.”

“Excuse me?”  
  
“Beluga caviar. The name is self-explanatory. Rarest form of caviar in the world. Order some for the store, would you?”

\---

“A necessary evil,” Hannibal had said, holding open the door to the new office, but Will knew a gift when he saw one.

It had been an unassuming room, back when they first toured the place-blue walls and a white carpet floor. The realtor suggested using it for storage. Will, who had a pretty good idea about the type of things they’d be storing, had just nodded.

Hannibal had ripped out the carpet and replaced it with a dark oak. The walls and ceiling had been painted tan and lined with wooden bookshelves, on which laid an assortment of books,  items, and decorations.

Antique, non-functional fishing poles decorated the walls, and if the implicated hadn’t been clear enough, there was Plumber’s Grease and rust-remover on the nearest bookshelf.

Will found lure making equipment in the top drawer of the desk and wooden blocks with carving tools in the bottom one.

He suspected that if there had been room, Hannibal would have put a broken boat engine somewhere in there. He suspected that Hannibal was disappointed he hadn’t been able to fit an entire boat.

A few weeks in, Will had noticed that the door only locked from the inside.

He didn’t think too hard about it.

Sometimes Will came in here to distract himself. Occasionally, he’d work on the store’s finances, which were permanently laid out on the table for the sake of appearances.

Today, he just came here to think.

The window looked out over the street, but from where Will sat now, all he could see was clear blue.

\---

Dinner was a spicy shrimp and avocado poke, topped with seaweed, mango, and sesame seeds.

They ate on the balcony. It was too small for a table, so Will sat on one of their oak patio chairs, while Hannibal stood, looking out across the vineyard.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Fate,” he answered immediately. “And you?”

“I was just thinking about how useless squid ink is.”

Hannibal smiled. “I appreciate your tolerance of my eccentricities.”

“Tolerance? I said no.”

“I may have ordered some anyway.”

“Of course you did.”

Will had long ago seen through any illusions of control. Manipulation, maybe. But lately, he hadn’t had been inclined.

“The San Marluino Symphony is performing at the Lumiere next Thursday. Would you come with me?”

“I’d have to decline. I’m afraid my appreciation for the arts is still somewhat limited.”

“Symphonies can be relaxing. One only needs to sit and think.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Hannibal gave him a look. Knowing, and maybe a little sad, too.

He looked different these days. He kept his hair, which he’d allowed to grow out, tied back, and only shaved on occasion. In the beginning and through means by which Will was sure he didn’t want to know, Hannibal had acquired several tailored suits. He’d hung them up in the closet, carefully, and hadn’t touched them since. “Casual” was never a word Will had expected would describe Hannibal’s wardrobe, but it was undeniably true. It wasn’t bad, he didn’t look _worse_ , but there were little things; people interrupted him, didn’t stare when he entered the room, tried to argue with him.

“Does it bother you?” Will asked. “Not being a doctor or a professor, or someone in a position of power, in this-” Life? Lie? “-circumstance?”

Hannibal shrugged. “A rose by any other name.”

“Jesus. Do you even hear yourself speak?”  
  
“Rarely.”

Will smiled without really thinking about it, and stared out over the vineyard.

It was easy, in the moonlight, to imagine that the rolling hills were actually ocean waves.  

\---

Grocery Primavera closed at seven. They generally avoided coming down here during opening hours, Hannibal because he was still running out his infamy and Will because he didn’t want to. But Hannibal liked to visually take stock, see what people had been buying-it was one of his more obvious little pleasures, so Will humored him.

“Well?” asked Will, because he knew Hannibal liked talking about the the shop’s stock.

Hannibal stared at the deli counter critically. “We should get more Brie De Meaux. Twice as much maybe. And more smoked duck.”

“Fine.”

Hannibal turned to walk down one of the short aisles, staring at the shelves.

There was a ding; Flowers closed the cash register and locked it. Occasionally she’d glance up at Hannibal. She, more than their other two employees, had never really gotten used to him.

“Thanks, Flowers,” said Will, feeling merciful. “You can go home.”

“Don’t you want to know how we did today?”  
  
Will looked at her and couldn’t summon enough effort to lie. “Not really.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll-bye then.”

“See you tomorrow.”

It was ironic, Will thought, that he’d been the one to take to the employees, while Hannibal preferred to stay uninvolved. The reclusivity, pretending not to speak English-all for anonymity’s sake, Hannibal claimed, but these days he never could seem to fool Will anymore.

Maybe he’d stopped trying.

“Oh, I forgot. The Herald guy came by again and he wanted me to ask you about the newspapers-”

_“No.”_

Hannibal seemed to have forgotten himself, forgotten that he was supposed to be the quirky and unassuming foreign grocer, because now he shone with the same divine sharpness that had led FBI investigators to lift up caution tape for him, without a thought to protocol because obviously _this guy_ had a right to be here. In fact, it was an _honor_.

Flowers looked at Hannibal nervously.

“Uh.”

“Sorry,” said Will, unwilling to get into it but knowing that Hannibal couldn’t. “We can’t sell newspapers here. We really just can’t.”

“Okay. I’ll . . . I’ll tell the Herald guy, then. If he comes back.”

“If he comes back,” said Will, watching as Hannibal left through the back door. “Tell him not to. Ever again.”

\---

“Care to join me for some wine?”

It was pitch black outside, and Will could barely make out Hannibal’s figure by the light that shone onto the balcony from inside the apartment.

“Sure.”

Will slid the door closed behind him before sitting across from Hannibal and pouring himself a glass.

There was a gust of wind, and Will closed his eyes for a moment as the vineyard air brushed his skin. Napa was getting colder as winter edged closer, but Hannibal didn’t seem to mind. Will found him out here most nights and sometimes during the day. Occasionally he’d bring his tablet, but most days he’d just watch the vineyard.

Will hadn’t asked.

It was a strange limbo they found themselves in. Will hesitated to use the word, even, because it implies an eventual end.

Or maybe, Will thought, it doesn’t.

When Hannibal spoke next, he sounded hesitant, like he was trying to figure out the best way to phrase something.

“It is not out of a lack of value that I say everything is disposable.”

“Of course. It’s out of your supreme respect for human life.”

“I only mean that lives can be deserted and replaced. As a snake sheds its skin.”

They didn’t talk like this anymore. The metaphors and implications were part of a game that had seemed to have drowned in the Atlantic.

“Is that what we are, doctor? Two vipers, caught in an infinite cycle of death and rebirth?”

They locked eyes.

\---

Light shone between the curtains, illuminating the floor in stripes of lazy afternoon sun. It warmed the room only in color, as the chill of the Baltimore winter seemed to permeate through the curtains-through the walls, even, as if they didn’t exist.

Will could see his breath dissipating into the atmosphere. He was sitting in a familiar leather armchair. He was still holding the empty wine glass.

Hannibal sat across from him, legs crossed. Instead of a suit, he wore the same button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark pants, under his faintly blood-stained apron.

He seemed oddly motionless. Will got the impression that he was holding his breath.

They stared at each other, vaguely aware of their surroundings more out of familiarity than actual perception. Bookshelves, an oak desk, a cushioned chaise. It was a moment frozen in time, thick and dreamy.

There was movement in Will’s peripherals. It was less the movement of a third figure and more like the breathing of the room itself, ebbing gently with the tide.

Will opened his hand, releasing the glass. It floated upwards, slowly, until it bumped the ceiling and stayed suspended there, next to Hannibal’s stapler and a few books.

**Author's Note:**

> Ch 2- stay turned!
> 
> So I've been sitting on this one for months. 
> 
> I wrote this as if I were genuinely pitching Hannibal season 4. (If you're looking to fill out the writers' room, Bryan-hint hint.) 
> 
> As a result, it's one of the least fanfiction-y things I've posted lately, possibly ever. Regardless, I think it's also one of my favorite things I've written in a long time and I wanted to share it anyway. 
> 
> I don't know when I'll get around to doing chapter 2, but I promise it will happen because I already know how this is going to end. I've got quite an arc planned.
> 
> Also, again; complete credit to [reapersun](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/132811710777/i-drew-my-weird-hannigram-dream-post-s3-murder) for the entire concept.
> 
> Feel free to talk to me/ask for updates at decotext.tumblr.com


End file.
